Prologue
Ten things I would go back six months and scream ferociously at myself:
1. There is no point keeping your outdated clothes from sixth form ‘just in case’. They are too small for you and you are in your late twenties.
2. It’s not a bad thing that you don’t know how to drive. . . But you can spare yourself that late-for-the-bus run and order a taxi sometimes.
3. You can paint as clear a picture of ‘adult you’ as you like, but life will show up, tear it to pieces and throw those pieces out of the window.
4. You are not a big drinker. Don’t try to be a big drinker, even if you are trying to prove a point.
5. If a man walks like a villain and talks like a villain, he’s absolutely a villain. DO NOT keep texting him.
6. There is no such thing as too many notebooks no matter what anyone may try to say. Buy another, actually! You know you deserve it.
7. You are far too good at sticking things out. If something’s not right for you, leave it, I beg.
8. Bottling up is not fun. You have friends for a reason and they are the best friends in the entire world.
9. Maybe, just maybe, you can know someone for most of your life and yet still not quite perceive them right.
10. You may have thought the day you blew your life up would stem from one big push. It has not. It has stemmed from six months of gentle nudges to the edge. And now the day has come. You know what to do. . . It’s time to jump.
Nudge 1
The Bus Pass
‘Wake up!’ I slam on the door, yelling. ‘Or I swear I will crease every single pair of your trainers.’
I promised myself that today would be different. I made a schedule, a tick-list and set a new wake-up time. And, yes, I snoozed two alarms before I got out of bed, but it still should have worked.
5 a.m.– Wake up; gym wear; go downstairs.
5.05 a.m.– Transfer last night’s clothes from washer to dryer; put on a forty-five-min cycle.
5.15 a.m.– Thirty minutes of yoga in the living room.
5.45 a.m.– Brisk morning shower (playlist pre-made).
6 a.m.– Remove clothes from dryer; pick an outfit.
6.15 a.m.– Body lotion; get changed; light natural make-up; try new hairstyle.
7 a.m.– Make green tea; pack lunch into black leather shoulder bag.
7.30 a.m.– Walk to the bus stop in new wool trench; log steps on new app.
8.30 a.m.– Arrive at work; use extra half an hour gained of workday for meeting prep.
But nothing is ever that simple and I should have known that from the moment I found my brother’s clothes in the dryer. The same clothes that have been sat there for over a week despite my multiple reminders. At that point I would have folded them myself, but Mum said we needed to ‘teach Anton a lesson’. What lesson? He’s learnt nothing and is only getting worse, and now the perfect outfit I’d planned is still sat, soggy, damp and likely smelly, in the washing machine. After digging around in my wardrobe, all I could come up with was a pair of thick tights, and a top and skirt that I haven’t worn since sixth form. I’m in aPeter Pancollar, for God’s sake! When I do not have the neck to pull those off!
There was a version of me from thirty minutes ago that believed I could get my perfect morning back on track. I ditched the yoga, skipped the tea and resolved to grab lunch on the go, and for a moment all seemed somewhat OK. Then I hit the bottom of the road, stuck my hand in my pocket and realised Anton still had my bus pass. A quick round of expletives and a speedy U-turn later, and here I am back at home at 7.50 a.m., having an almost one-sided screaming match with my little brother.
I slam three sharp, hard slaps on his bedroom door before immediately following with rapid-fire knocking. If I had any real courage, I’d barge through it, but I’ve already learnt the hard way that he doesn’t wear a stitch of clothing to bed.
‘Seriously, Anton. I mean it,’ I hiss through the closed door. ‘I’ll ruin every single pair you own.’
‘Go away, Maddison!’ His voice is a husky growl.
